


Does my crush have a crush while I'm crushing?

by Anonymous



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Light Angst, M/M, Misunderstandings, Mutual Idiocy, Mutual Pining, the other lads deserve nobel prize for their admirable patience
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-10
Updated: 2021-01-28
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:28:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27491203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Communication is the key, they say. Trust Paul and John to make it much more difficult.
Relationships: John Lennon/Paul McCartney
Comments: 13
Kudos: 49
Collections: Anonymous





	1. Have you, like, tried to talk?

**Author's Note:**

> just a silly fic bc alternating between classes and changing my cats' litter lost its spark;) 
> 
> (also on the shorter side not to drain the remaining braincells of mine)

"He said WHAT?" Paul screeches, overlooking the way George shut his eyes frustratedly.

"That you look like Elvis." Paul silently beckons him to elaborate, which is difficult for George, who already wasted his daily limit of words uttered. He always does with Paul. "Ehm, I mean, you do, kind, eh, kind of? Except for the eyes, tho, ouch-." 

George rubs the spot Paul attacked with his elbow, not blinking at the annoyed look Paul is giving him. "For Christ's sake, this is a crucial phase, do you think, you know, it could mean he is interested?"

"CruCiAL pHAsE," George repeats, rolling his eyes. "Yer talking like Indiana Jones packing up for a mission." He spots an abandoned bag of crisps dangling in Paul's hold, waste no time in taking care of it. His mate can't be trusted with such treasures in a state like this. And he has his fingers to munch on, anyway.

"Yer right, yer right," Paul muses, his voice distant as his gaze. The tone indicates he thinks: "George, you have no clue what love is. My suffering is not to be recognised from distance, let alone by heartless creatures like yourself. But I can assure you, oh sure I can, the scars carved to the surface of my heart would make Romeo and Juliet look like a Donald Duck and Daisy." 

George busies himself with chewing loudly, knowing very well it is the proper way to summon McCartney the perfectionist back to the world of humans. 

"GeOo," Paul howls, kicking an innocent pebble that dared to stand in his way. "Anything else you talked about? You and John I mean."

"Yeah, he said he like-"

"YES?" Paul enquiries, voice shaking with curiosity.

"-liked how they dropped the prices of chocolate. Said he didn't have to choose between lung cancer and obesity anymore, like."

"I see," Paul composes himself, the slightly slouched shoulders the only indication of his disappointment.

"Maybe you should, like, talk to him?" George suggests, picking up bits and bobs of knowledge he has picked from watching romantic movies with his sister. He still remembers the horror splayed on her face when he shared his theory that all romcoms could be reduced into tv series if anybody bothered to make them spill the beans during the first 20 minutes.

Paul clicks his tongue as if considering it then looks dead into George's eyes. "We do talk."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah!"

"What about then?" George presses further in the faint hopes of getting his point across and into McCartney's thick skull.

"Stuff." 

In no alternative universe George would consider this a sufficient answer. He let the beat of silence to alert Paul what he just uttered, shaking his head as the blush begins to cover the other lad's face.

"Like, ehm...yeah, just stuff." Paul attempts to escape the hole he had dug himself, slipping into the mud even more. "Anyway," he exclaims LOUDLY to interrupt any funny thought from fully blooming in his head, unlocking the front door. "'S not like I'm begging him to marry me, more like, you know, talking, talking, talking, nonsense. Will you play me the song you wrote?"

Personally, George thinks Paul is just another level of delusional, but bites his tongue. After all, he is quite proud of the little riff he managed to scribble down.

  
🦧🦧🦧

John wiggles around, enough to stretch his legs without altering the position Stuart had bossed him to remain in. He sighs loudly to get the attention of the nearby lazying Ivan. Succeeds after five minutes.

"So, he likes me hands, yeah?"

Stu pretends the creative process has fully engulfed him, eyeing the struggles Ivan experiences from the corner of his eyes. 

"I guess?" The poor lad squeezes out, feeling like he could lose his footing any moment, 0especially when poking a sensitive topic such as John's love life.

"Hmm," John declares, squinting as tries to come up with an idea of his own. "What should my next steps be?" 

Both of his friends resist the urge to sign, having gone back and forth to see all the different nuances of the complicated relationship of McCartney and Lennon. This time Ivan focuses solely on Stuart, experimenting with transferring his thoughts via a slightly angry gaze. To no avail.

He scratches his neck anxiously then decides to speak up. "What about talking?"

"TALKING?" John turns to him, his face a depiction of not having a single clue as for what Ivan meant. At least he snaps back into the previous pose when Stuart scolds him. 

"Weeeell," Ivan drags out, imagining the holes he could burn into Stu's traitorous arse if he had a vision like Superman. "You could take the compliment and throw it right back at him, I mean, there must be something you ador-"

"YeS, praise McCartney like there is no tomorrow." Stuart joins in, boycotting Ivan's well structured, Oprah-like speech. He gestures his work is done for today, fishes up a packet of ciggies and throws two at his friends. 

"Jokes aside, Iv's advice has some truth to it. We all know Paul will basically come on the spot if anybody strokes his ego. So, you just need to tone down the vulgarities and yer fine." 

"Understood, understood," John takes a puff wistfully. "I think his arse is a glorious one, d'you reckon I-"

"You are a lost cause," Stuart remarks, while Ivan puts all his energy into filling the background with gagging sounds.

John is cackling like he just fled the madhouse till he breaths in the smoke and a pompous coughing fit ensues.

Red-faced and with tears smeared over his face, John chuckles one last time before springing to his legs to fetch himself a beer.

"Baby steps then," he mutters.


	2. What is this weird feeling?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> they are still idiots and Paul's dad is onto something

John smoothes the mass of unruly auburn hair, for what is probably the sixth time in the last hour. Then ruffles it up, for what is, also, probably the sixth time in the last hour.

Not like he tries to impress anybody. It wouldn't even make sense, because he'll stay home with Paul, killing time with music and similar shenanigans. Enjoying their 'just lads' time. Yeah. Nothing, not even the fact that Paul hinted John's hands were nice, is going to change the plan.

John brings his right hand in front of his eyes, slides his glasses on upon noticing he only sees a blurred dot. Hmm. Doesn't look like something special. Or attractive. Just like, well, hand. Would be weird if it wasn't at the joint of his shoulder but besides that? Pretty much shruggable. Like the rest of him.

He groans at the intrusive thoughts regarding his looks. Now is not the time. Effortless, charming, witty. Those adjectives should become his second skin. Not soulless, pathetic and grumpy.

He wonders what kind of ring Paul would fancy receiving, as in an engagement ring, that is. He acts like a diva at times, so definitely something sparkly. Not too sparkly, tho, too much bling bling would probably scare him off.

"If you don't scare him off first," an annoying voice in his head suggests.

John rolls his eyes at no one, before deciding to solve the problem the most intelligent way. 

He is going to sleep till Paul decides to show up. Clearly, he must be tired, the funny thoughts about Paul confirming that staying up till 2 am is not the best lifestyle. He read that sleep could enhance one's appearance, not like he would yearn to impress any of his friends with a rested face; soft, glowing skin or the absence of dark circles under his eyes. But...

🦧🦧🦧

Paul dodges the duty of taking the trash out, what a luck, which earns him a pissed stare from Mike, but his mind is already at Mendips for him to care let alone notice.

He has spent a considerable amount of time in front of his mirror, fluffing and styling his hair, a pic of Elvis serving him as a guide. Even his dad noticed and with eyebrows raised asked him whether he was having a date.

Paul almost choked on the words of protest then. "It's just John." He shrugged and rolled his eyes to highlight the whimsicality of it.

His dad didn't avert his eyes, the signature pair of McCartney arched brows raised high. "Yes, it's always John, isn't it?" He retorted, not waiting for his eldest son to react, before going to catch up with the newspaper.

Paul rolled his eyes back then, again, sneakily behind the eyelids, but it still counted. But, as soon as he found a nice vacant seat in the bus, his reckless mind began to poke the issue. He should feel grossed out, right, just at the prospect of, you know, having a date with his best mate. A boy. So, why the hell is he feeling like someone is tickling his tummy from inside? Oh, yeah, he forgot to have a snack and George munched half of his lunch, makes sense now. 

Relieved by the solution his brain offered (and slightly hungry), Paul uses the rest of the ride to relax, observing the life rushing behind the windows and enjoying the freedom that comes with Friday afternoon. 

And he can't wait for John, truly, because with exams and all the stuff accompanying the end of November as the last month before Christmas he didn't get to see him. And when they did meet up, the thought of school kept ringing in the back of Paul's head, so he wouldn't label it as a quality time.

Plus, and that makes him spring to the front door of John's house, he dreamed of a nice melody but couldn't come with fitting words.

Finger on the bell, Paul shifts from side to side, not at all a fan of standing outside when it's colder than a witch's tit. He can feel his happiness dissipating and hopes that John didn't forget about their plans. 

Huffing, he slides off his glove to dial John's number, exhaling furiously when it doesn't ring, in the first place. John could have a pigeon and still be out of reach. 

He contemplates heading home, shuddering at the image of his dad giving him his 'see, I told you that John fella is no good' glance. Instead, he tries the doorknob, carefully stepping inside when it opens the door, and hoping John was right about Mimi running errands because Paul would not like the fiery lady to scold him because he entered her sacred house.

The coast looks clear, and Paul dares to whisper his friend's name. Then adds a bit of volume. And once again till he yells, but just almost, still expecting Mimi to jump out of a secret chamber or something.

15 minutes tick by, the warmth forcing Paul to slide off his coat. An awful thought of John dying crosses his mind, speeding the tempo of his heartbeat.

The steps leading to John's room seem endless as he takes one after one till he stands right in front of the right door. With a trembling hand he cracks it open, peeking in there...

He is so going to scream.

Because John lies there, snuggled peacefully under a flowery blanket, chest rising and falling in the rhythm of his steady breaths.

Paul gut instinct advises him to wake the lazy bastard up. Scare him. And give him a piece of his mind. Paul almost pronounced him dead, for god's sake. He creeps closer, taking a deep breath, so his voice can really shine, and does nothing.

Well, he exhales shakily, because this close he can observe John's face without feeling like a creep. Admire the softness of the pale cheeks, slightly flushed and dotted with freckles. Even coo at the way the thin lips are open slightly, cute white teeth peeking at him. He doesn't remember the last time he saw John this relaxed, peaceful, except the one time he invited him to meet his new cat. Paul snapped a picture secretly, John talking to a fluffy ball on his lap, face tender.

 _"He is so beautiful."_ Paul mind supplies. And he can't blame it on being hungry this time.

Afraid he would do something inappropriate like reaching out and smoothen the hair from John's forehead, Paul walks back to down, quietly like a mouse, and prepares a tea. 

Then he carries a glass of water back, John tends to be parched after sleeping, gazing at the angelic face for one last time before he splotches it with the cold liquid.

"Whut the fuck?" John screams, jolting to a sitting position.

"Do you have some snacks here?" Paul asks nonchalantly, shifting the focus to his growling stomach. 

🦧🦧🦧

John strain himself from passing out, he is certain he set up an alarm, to prevent something like **this** happening. A quick glance at the devices shows his battery decided to die on him. Bloody technology, he should take the vintage alarm clock Mimi owns. 

As soon as he gulps down the water, bless Macca for his mother hen instinct, John excuses himself to rush to the bathroom to inspect the effect of his snooze. And, of course, groans upon seeing someone who resembles a hen. An auburn-haired hen, which is pathetic. Abandoning his plan to charm Paul with his looks, John dives into his secret place to fish up a bar of premium milk chocolate. The only way to deal with cranky lads.

He offers the sweet dessert to Paul, who is sitting on the sofa, wistfully holding the mug of tea and glaring at him, as a peace offering, before he settles next to him.

"So," John drags out, hoping he doesn't blush like a pig, and if yes, it could be blamed on the steam from the cup. 

"...got any good songs?"

  
Of course, Paul has. It is like asking Dali whether he did any good doodles as for late. He eagerly grasps John's guitar, showing off what he scrambled down, head bobbing merrily along with the rhythm. 

_"He is beautiful,"_ John thinks, immediately flushing like a tomato. Nononono. 

He focuses on the crisp white page Paul gave him to come with some cracking lyrics. That's good, anything relocating his interest is most welcome. 

They are buzzing with excitement as they put it all together for the first time, not caring about how much cliché it is, but relishing the product of their mutual effort. Paul carefully copies the words into his own notebook, as John fumbles with his guitar, strumming horrendous melodies to wordlessly tell Paul to notice him. If someone were to assume John picked up social habits from his cat, well, they wouldn't be wrong.

🦧🦧🦧

"Do ye think they do something, like, interesting?" Ivan asks, as he serves a slice of his mum's cake to George, then deposits his bum next to him.

He managed to lure the younger boy to play badminton with him, the aforementioned cake serving as bribery. It was definitely worth it, though, for the amusing image of George's skeleton-like body and his stubborn willingness to win. 

Ivan didn't think of John or Paul for a while, for the sake of his mental health, but the previous day Paul brought up how he was finally meeting John, excitement being more than visible from the glint of his eyes. And that made Ivan suspicious. Normally, it was the other way around -- John gibbering about Paul not so sneakily and Paul casually remarking that, yeah, they were meeting up. Ivan's things got serious alarm started beeping.

"Who? Paul and John?" George asks, not bothering to chew the food before speaking up. "Absolutely not, they are too busy pretending they don't invade each other's personal space on a daily basis. Can I have another piece?" 

Ivan nods, praying John would not want to meet immediately after their date-but-don't-say-it meeting. He would gladly let Stuart to handle it all.

🦧🦧🦧

"What's yer favourite body part?" John interrupts the silence following almost an hour of laughing and sharing wacky stories.

"Body part?" Paul repeats, blowing out a plume of cigarette smoke. They will have to open every single window, so Mimi wouldn't catch a whiff, but he couldn't bring himself to care.

He has to be very careful now, with nicotine shadowing his brain, there's the danger of him crossing the line. His brain rushes to supply 'hands, namely yours'. Fortunately, he contains himself. Avoids falling into the trap with his cunning reply.

"Tits, I guess. What's yours?" 

He shivers when John glares at him as if preparing himself to strangle him. 

  
"Tits? Fucking tits? WHAT THE FUCK? I don't have tits." These and similar thoughts fly through John's head at the speed of light. 

"Dunno, nothing I guess. I decided to be an old spinster, you know." He forces out, even barks a laugh. "BECAUSE YOU JUST BROKE MY HEART." He wants to add, possibly with a dramatic delivery, but doesn't. That's just the sleep deprivation that makes him act like a lunatic. Boobs are fine, after all, not like he can argue about that. 

  
When they part their ways later that evening, Paul walks instead of catching the bus. The cold air always clears his mind. And he needs that right now.

Was John hinting...? No, that's ridiculous. But why would he ask this question? Or gaze at him like a kicked puppy? Maybe Paul did something wrong, he has to admit he can be ignorant at times. Or, maybe, he hasn't bedded a girl for too long and his starved mind is just suggesting raunchy ideas. Or maybe John saw him ogling him in his sleep and decided to mock him.

"Good evening, Paul, how was your date?" His dad welcomes him, Mike laughing like a maniac in the background.

Paul's ears grow red as he mumbles something about being too tired and departs to his room. He will call George tomorrow. 


	3. What do we do? We ask friends.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> stu and george majored in relationships, an important call is made, mclennon is usually awkward

"You did what?" George interrupts the tirade of inhuman noises, also known as Paul trying to tell a story.

There is a pause on the other side before a clarification, sharp as a razor, follows.

"...you know."

"No, I don't know, Paul, that's why you called me, right? To tell me because I don't know what happened." George reasons as he adores the darkness of the streets at 6 am. His older friend can count himself lucky George doesn't mind an early rise, in fact, he is glad Paul called him for he has always wanted to explore the winter morning without the school-related stress. Which he now can, with headphones covering his ears and a cup of hot coffee in his hand, George must admit not staying in bed till 10 am has its charm. (And so does the lack of people, enhancing the experience and making George feel like the last person after an apocalypse.)

"Right, yeah, sorry, ehm, so...we were with John and-"

It requires patience, tons of it, but George is glad Paul chose him to talk it through rather than pretend nothing has ever happened. The lad just needs a friendly push, which is George more than happy to deliver.

"Aand?"

"Jesus, I-I said I liked tits."

"WHAT?"

He doesn't know whether to laugh or scream at how dumb Paul acts. He can't believe someone with social intelligence this low is capable of wooing every girl he wants. But then, not like those birds could ever compete with John. George decides he needs more information to imagine the interaction.

"So, you just told him 'I like tits' as soon as he opened the door? You told the boy who is the love of yer life that you like boobs? A quite specific body part that could indicate you are into the opposite sex?"

Another pause filled up with rustling and shuffling, Paul probably got up and is now pacing in his room. From the window to the door, repeat.

"Ehm, well, not-that's not how it went."

"Yeah?"

"GEORGE, HE IS NOT THE LOVE OF MY LIFE!"

There is a bang on the door, perfectly audible through the speaker followed by a loud 'shut up Paul'. George grins at the domestic image, Mike has always had the ability to get his point through. He cackles fully when he hears Paul hissing something about his privacy and the right to exist freely in his own fucking room, then remembers the actual point of their conversation.

"So, how was it then?"

"Like we were playing, you know, fooling 'round and stuff, not like in a dirty way, George don't even think about THAT, and, uhm, and he asked me about my favourite body part. So, I was...I was confused at first, because he was looking at me, and I saw him sleeping when I arrived, so it all came back, and I was thinking 'fuck fuck fuck' and almost said something about his hands but, like, y'know...what if it was just a joke? That's why I said tits. Because it's kinda neutral? Like even John comments on boobs and so on, so I thought 'well, it's a safe grey area', and it wasn't, like that safe."

There is silence as George tries to process everything that was thrown at him within the span of 0.02 seconds. He wonders how Paul manages to breathe. So many words.

"Did you see John sleepin'?"

"That's not important."

"Ah, yeah, my bad, obviously your awful social skills are what matters. Seriously, Paulie, what the heck? You could just say hands, that's perfectly neutral too, you know, girls have those things as well. John would be happy, you would be happy, he would maybe say something about your bum, you would blush, then you would kiss, get married in the future but-".

"GEORGE," Paul screams silently, trying to avoid another confrontation with his brother or, even worse, his dad. "What do I do?"

That was a good question, truly, what should be done so those two idiots would stop tiptoeing around each other while simultaneously digging a deeper hole with their 'me? in love? with you? allow me to say an utter bollocks to make me seem like the most heterosexual human being' strategies. It's like an endless soap opera except you always know they will get together in those, something that George can't claim without a shiver of hesitance in this case.

"I think you should talk."

"I am talking to you."

"I mean you and John, I know you talk about stUff or whatever you call it, but maybe, just maybe, you could, like, tell him something that you actually think? Something along the lines of 'hey, John remember I found out I like hands a lot' and let it seep through. You know John is able to make the first step but needs encouragement. And maybe show him some gentleness, too, without covering it with some joke. See where it goes."

"Oh." Paul breathes out, his voice turning into a dramatical murmur. "You think-wouldn't that seem a bit dumb?"

"Your interactions are quite dumb when it comes to feelings, not like this would particularly jut out."

"That's so mean," Paul protests, eager to change the topic. 

"It's true tho, you are just lucky you don't have to witness it from a broader perspective. Ivan is devastated, too, because the poor guy is hammered between you and John, either of you chirping about the other and, tada, nothing happens."

"I guess," Paul surrenders, voice suddenly timid. "So, I will try that, yeah? Talking more openly. Thanks, Georgie, you are, ehm, great friend, really."

George sips the beverage calmly, the compliment making him warm. "Good luck and Paul?"

"Hm?"

"Don't say you like pussy or something, you know, when panicking."

There is an affectionate profanity whispered through Paul's gritted teeth, though, they both know how much truth the sentence carries. Their call ends with a beep, leaving George to enjoy the rest of his lone adventure.

🦧🦧🦧

John watches the interaction of Sally and Harry, a judging wrinkle appearing between his brows. Mimi allowed him to sleep at Stuart's, hoping it would lift her niece's spirits. He had been a shadow of himself lately, not even protesting when asked to clean up his room. 

"Love doesn't exist."

Stuart grasps another slice of pizza, stuffs his mouth so he wouldn't smile and accidentally infuriate his friend, not like John's suffering was amusing but the sheer ignorance...

"Yet you are in love." He remarks, as casually and quietly as possible.

John shoots him a dirty look, for a moment forgetting about his critique of romantic comedies. (The fact that he was the one to pick it up plays the role of a minor, delicate detail. Of course.)

"I'M NOT IN-," he trails off, eyes flicking between Stuart and space till they soften. "And so if I am, look what happened. Such a prick, that McCartney. 'I like tits.' Would you believe it? 'S just, I don't know, he brought me a glass of water and blushed when I looked at him, and then, nothing. I wish it wasn't like this."

"Maybe he is just afraid?" Stu suggests, tapping John's knee with the hand that is not greasy to get his attention. "He could think you were joking, trying to corner him and have a laugh, can't say I wouldn't think the same." 

John's mouth opens comically, and he gazes at his wiser (yeah, he admitted it a year ago) friend with wide eyes. It can't-Paul knows him he wouldn't think...

"...oh, come on, John, don't pretend you don't cross the line every so often. And don't pretend Paul is an emphatic guru, knowing your most secret thoughts, either. Which, well, he probably does, but since he is a mess, too, it makes it harder for him, it's not just you losing your footing."

"He knows me!!" John protests feebly, blood draining and rising to his face at the same time. Stuart chuckles, getting up and bringing a big glass of water.

"'M not saying he doesn't, just, this is weird since I can't say I'm in a McCartney club, but you tend to take him for granted at times? He follows you around, sure sure, with his stubborn head, but he would jump if you told him to. And I think he knows that, so," Stu pauses here, checking if John is listening and, more importantly, grasping the point, then continues. "So, it makes him more vulnerable, because you are more honest about your feelings, yes, but not around him, and he has this facade to put up with everything, which is hard to stop doing. And, maybe, he likes you, loves you, and you just ask him about his favourite body part. Out of blue. What would you do if he told you about your hands, hmm?"

"That's-that's not, I don't know, I-I." 

Stuart's poised face doesn't twitch except for a micro rise of his eyebrows, enough for John to rethink what he said.

"-alright, I would probably laugh it off, yeah, satisfied? Because what else could I do?"

"See? You are pissed and grumpy just because he didn't expose his feelings, but you would have no idea what to do after. I'd say he saved the day for both of you, can you imagine trying to date someone whose feelings you mocked? Someone being Paul who says 'I like you' to his dad once in, what, 5 years? John, John."

John curls into a ball, long limbs tucked to appear as small as possible. He is fucked up in his head. It doesn't make sense why he would do something like that. React like that. No wonder Paul wants to have nothing to do with him. Yeah, that's even better, negative thoughts, splendid, now when he should concentrate on a new plan. There's a noise next to him before Stuart's tiny frame wraps around him, drawing soothing shapes on his back. 

"Hey, hey, it doesn't mean you fucked it up, you can still talk to Paul, right? Can try to be less demanding and, maybe, voice your thoughts? Remember, baby steps?"

John nods, feeling a bit better. Stuart releases his body but doesn't move, so they are still touching in a comforting way. The movie is back when it was before this life-changing interaction.

"You know I think love does exist," John says apologetically, knowing that Stuart would find the 'thank you so much' in between the lines. 

🦧🦧🦧

Paul waits for his dad and brother to go to the mall, watches them get into the car. The house is quiet, and he clutches his phone, fingers hovering above John's number. Just before he decides he is doing it, a sudden wave of panic startles him, causing him to rush to the kitchen to fix himself a cuppa. 

Waiting for the kettle, he goes through his mental checklist. Not say anything about the female body, not shrug his feelings off like a joke, not get overly pathetic, try to sound at ease...it goes on and on.

Eyes fixed on the steam, he touches the screen, ignoring the frantic beating of his heart. It rings for what seems like a hundred years, and he is prepared to abort the mission when there's a click and...

On the other side is John who spent years looking for his ringing phone, then couldn't bring himself to pick the call, because it showed him a photo of Paul, making a daft face, all shiny eyes and bunny teeth.

"Hello?"

"John? Oh-I, Hi."

He chuckles involuntarily, glad he hears his friend's voice.

"Paul? Is that Paul? Am I speaking to Paul McCartney?" 

It's so easy to slip back into a banter, to giggle together like schoolboys. Paul has always made him feel younger, but there's an air of uncertainty now, and John remembers Stuart's words, tries to handle it better than the last time.

"Do-do you need something?" 

He cringes at his words, at the little traitorous stutter and the delivery, hopes the silence is not caused by Paul starting to clam up.

"I-I, no, 's just, y'know, well, I guess yes, YES, I wanted to talk to you, I'm not interrupting, am I?"

John's lips stretch in a grin, Paul's stumbling over words and the adorable way he is all proper and formal indicate he is dealing with nerves too, which makes John feel better.

"No, course not, I'm all ears."

"Riight," Paul laughs anxiously. "So, I was thinking-thinking about the time you asked me about my favourite body part, yeah?"

John's blood is freezing and he shuts his eyes in shame. "Yeah?" He squeezes out, every muscle taut with anticipation.

"I said breast back then, and, well, I wasn't lying because they are hot and all that, but it wasn't what I wanted to say. I-what the point is I adore hands, nice hands, strong hands, ehm, li-like your hands. That's what I should have said back then. Hands. Like yours." 

The room is spinning.

  
Paul's face is crimson. The shade of ketchup in advertisements. Even his ankles are coloured by embarrassment and appalment. Price for following George's tips and tricks. And John hasn't spoken yet.

"Johnny?" He calls, unsure whether he is even speaking to his friend. Maybe he did what they do in movies -- staring at the device before placing it atop the table, the camera capturing the disappearing figure while the other person's voice is still echoing from the phone. 

"Sorry, I just, are you serious?" 

"Yeah, very serious actually, like I wish I wasn't serious kind of serious."

John laughs, a warm sound that makes Paul reciprocate the gesture, and it eases the atmosphere a little, crushing the fear of destroying their friendship.

"Paul?" John's nasal voice asks, not waiting for the reply. "I like eyes, big, expressive eyes with different shades and droopy eyelids." 

"Oh," Paul smiles till his cheeks hurt, the flush now a product of endearment, not a fear.

"Oh," John hums, suddenly weightless and joyful. 

When the call ends, they both linger around, replaying every word in their head, quite not _home_ yet, eyes focused on something invisible to others and a dreamy expression splayed on their faces. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry, writer's block has bitten my arse, but today I finally sat down to write this, hope you bunch are christmasy spirited and all that jazz (or not, whatever you fancy, just be safe and warm!!!)


	4. Trust embarrassment to warm you up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> bus rides, wicked plans and random moments of intimacy

One thing is the beauty of winter captured on photographs, the other is to endure its stinging pinches on one's skin. George and Ivan learn that the hard way when their bus decides to set off 4 minutes earlier, the driver laughing at 2 lanky boys sprinting like madmen. 

"Wanker." Ivan mutters, shifting his weight from side to side to accumulate warmth. George only nods, cursing his empty head for forgetting his gloves that morning.

They were to play badminton again, and George has to say he is slowly growing to love the sport and Ivan's company as well. Originally, mister McCartney received an invitation, too, but refused in favour of going to browse bookshops with John under the veil of Christmas shopping. At least, he possessed enough self-awareness to blush when both his friends raised their eyebrows unimpressed.

Anybody less familiar with the slow rhythm of those two would assume they are together now and forget about them, a luxury neither Ivan nor George can afford. And it seems that the phase of stagnation starts to get on Stuart's nerves as well, what else could explain the message he sent them just when Paul was babbling about his dad signing up to GoodReads to share a nasty review about an awful thriller he read.

Their next location determined -- Stu's flat -- both of them pray not to freeze and for the aforementioned artist having his fridge refilled. A can of beer is the last thing they deserve after their effort to be fit.

🦧🦧🦧

Paul hums as he scans the row of thrillers in front of him. A list of all the books his da has read and owns -- a product of his ultra-secret mission aka sneakily hunting through his father's library -- hidden in his hand. Finally, he spots the titles he came for, victoriously crosses them off the paper and turns around to find his companion.

There are too many people, yet he doesn't mind, not when he has his plan sorted. _And definitely not with John by his side._ His scoffs at himself, causing an old woman to spit something about the youth not having an idea about good manners. It flies over his head when he finally spots the black beanie with cats ears. 

"Anything interesting?" He whispers right next to John's ear, biting down the grin threatening to split his lips in a joker-esque fashion. John looks adorable, messy locks darting from underneath that horrendous hat, cheeks flushed from the warm air, not to mention the look of determination he sports as he flips through an undefined work of literature.

Paul's joy of startling him (yes, he noticed the twitch of his shoulders) falters when John turns around and shoves the book into his face. 

Thinking it's some daft joke, Paul grasps it to inspect, double takes the title, then gazes up to John with suspicious eyes. A cookbook? 

"Yer not vegetarian, Lennon." He comments, not sure what result he tries to achieve. John appears nonchalant as he shrugs a teeny weeny smirk playing on his lips.

"Well, you are, so, do you have this cookbook or not?"

The serious tone confuses Paul, poking the always eager gears in his head to munch the information. _Is John suggesting that? No, that can't be-WHAT IF it is true?_ Paul nibbles at his thumb in a vain attempt at connecting the dots and revealing the wicked plan, because it has to be some weird joke, John has never been the one to enjoy Christmas, nor has he ever given his friends grand presents. Paul often received a bar of chocolate and he is called John's best friend. 

"What-I mean...?" He stumbles over his words, the embarrassment of the incapability to form his thoughts causing him to shut it completely. John's face doesn't break into giggles, nor does he say 'gotcha', they are staring at each other in the full bookstore, creating their own bubble.

"I'll get it for you! If you like the recipes, just-ehm, have a look." John announces as it is the most natural thing to do. With trembling hands, Paul turns a page after page, murmuring the name's of the individual dishes. There is no way he can cover the excitement bubbling in his chest, the ingredients are simple, everything is explained from scratch and...and his mouth waters upon seeing juicy photos. _He hopes John didn't pick up telepathy overnight, because an image of them appears in his head - cooking together, laughing, Paul wiping the streak of chocolate off John's face before he leans in to ki-..._

"It's too expensive." He protests feebly, ignoring the fact that he already purchased professional oil colours and new brushes for John. (And that's just the present he told Geo about.)

"So you like it then?" 

"Well, yeah but-"

"Ok." 

Ok? John takes the book back, placing in his cart and decides to roam the shop further, planning to buy some interesting book for Mimi. Paul doesn't' trust himself to pick up the topic again, and so he trails behind him, deciding to rummage through journals for Michael so he would remember where it was his turn to do dishes.

And if there is a crystal clear idea of what the first meal he will cook following the instructions of his new book be, well, Paul allows it to linger in the back of his head to make sure he could elaborate on it after he climbs into his bed that evening.

  
🦧🦧🦧

Just when Ivan starts to consider the option of uber, however scared he is after watching all the storytime videos about creepy drivers, their bus appears around the corner. He grins at George who smiles back, hands lost in Ivan's extra pair of gloves his mum insisted he packed up.

The ride is extremely pleasant for most of the travellers get off the following stop, and it improves the quality of air as well as the existence of their personal space. Ivan tries not to picture what the shopping escapades of his two friends look like, really, because he is familiar with both -- Paul's shopping frenzy when he aims for the best gifts ever, scanning shop after shop relentlessly; and John's indifference to anything vaguely similar. Though, and that's the thought Ivan relishes, he hopes their habits can mix together, easing Paul's anxiety to be liked as well John's fear of being too soft.

Finally, they knock at Stuart's door, waiting for a quiet 'comin'' before they are rushed inside.

It feels heavenly, the atmosphere is cosy with candles and muted music. And, that's something neither of them will ever forget, there is Chinese take out on the table. Too much for the entire army, just enough for them.

They wait for their stomachs to appreciate the culinary magic before gazing at each other simultaneously as if to say 'onto the business, gentlemen'.

"So-," Ivan starts.

"How are our-," Stuart adds.

"Bloody hopeless." George finishes. 

"Right," Stuart confirms, comfortably sprawled on the sofa. "So I thought hence I came up with a plan."

"Wha' plan?" George queries, hoping the last piece of pizza would go unnoticed by Ivan. "Are you going to make John propose to Paul?" That provokes a chuckle from Ivan and enables George to shift the paper box closer to him. It basically has his name on it by now.

"Well, John bought Paul tickets to fucking Paris, I doubt he needs my help." 

"He did WHAT?" George's eyes bulge out, emotions of whose existence he has no idea before swirling inside his head. Ivan appears unfazed, nodding amusedly. "Paul bought him some artistic tools, expensive shit may I add." 

"Yeah, we need to provide them with space so they won't decide to back off, right? And, surprise, I just know how to do it. Shotton has a small Christmas party, you two are invited, course. I will keep John sober and optimistic, you will drag Paul to the actual party, then we will find some dark-ish room and bang, our work is done."

Ivan steals a glance at George who returns the favour, his hand frozen midway still clutching a pizza triangle. They share everything. The worries, the awful realisation of what is to come, the images of Paul hissing because he doesn't like parties... They don't voice it to Stuart, who looks satisfied with his cunning plan after all everybody has lost count of times he has had to deal with John at his worst. And they almost died outside today, for fuck's sake, what is a grumpy McCartney compared to that?

"Fellas," George interrupts the silence. "You reckon we could order some kind of dessert to celebrate?"

  
🦧🦧🦧

John heart hammers like his last minute of being alive approached. Fortunately, it's just the side effect of Paul's body pressed to his as the bus zig-zags through the evening city. The lad looks tired, which doesn't surprise John at all, not when he glances at all the bags he is carrying. 

It fails to amuse him, though, because he witnessed the stress Paul cumulates on himself just to make flocks of people happy at any cost.

They shared a passionate debate, an argument if you will, over their hot chocolates when John brought up how Paul didn't have to worry about everybody. 

Determined to prove him otherwise, Paul fished out the holy list of every single person he decided to give a present to. With lenses perched on his nose, John inspected each article, grumbling under his breath when he spotted the name of a guy who used to make fun of Paul's weight. He wordlessly checked him off, glaring at his friend enough to cause him to blush. Then there was Paul's cousin that never asked their family how they were. Followed by 2 friends who scarcely called first and another 10 people who had never bought anything in return. 

Satisfied with the updates, he handed the paper back, waiting for Paul's reaction. Oddly enough, he just smiled, muttering an almost inaudible 'thanks'.

And now they are going to Paul's place because neither Jim nor Mike will be home till the next day, and John offered his service to help with wrapping the purchased goodies. 

Though, John strongly doubts they will ever make it to that phase if Paul's head on his shoulder _(calm down, John, deep breaths, John)_ is of any indication. Scratch that, the entire McCartney is wrapped around John like a huge cat, soft hair tickling John's face. He braces himself not to fall to the aisle and secures a hand over Paul's back while trying to keep every single bag on board. An old couple looks at him, both smiling as they rush to get off the vehicle. "Lovely pair," the man tells his wife, and somehow the quote worms himself into John's head to conduct the rhythm of his heart.

  
The romantic aspect falters when it's their stop and John has to shake his confused friend awake. Paul's eyes are heavy and he leans to John for stability as he prattles on about how short the ride was. John finds he wouldn't mind if the road from the bus stop to Paul's residence lasted forever. Though, the realistic part of him breathes in relief when they are finally in the living room, two mugs of tea in front of them. 

He becomes painfully aware of the giant book he bought for Paul and timidly places it on the table. Paul's eyes widen, and before John's brain processes what is happening, his friend excuses himself and RUSHES upstairs.

What the heck?

🦧🦧🦧

It's in the security of his own room where Paul starts to panic. He didn't expect John to buy him a fucking expensive book which leaves him weirdly warm and also without any other option than to dig his own presents from the depths of his wardrobe.

He paces nervously, deciding whether he should spare the gift number one and save the number for later or vice verse. _Stupid John, always taking him by surprise, with his idiotic hats and pink skin, and strong arms he could trust to guide him home despite his legs not cooperating._

"Paul?" Echoes from the ground floor, John's probably begins to stir, never the type to wait for...30 minutes?? How is it possible that time flies so fast? Paul pats his cheeks lightly to ground himself, grabs the adorned box and runs back.

It's awkward, much more than in Paul's wildest dreams which doesn't exactly lift his spirits. He approaches the older boy, tries to come up with a suave method to deliver his present, fails immediately.

"That's, uh, for you." 

He throws the thing on the table, busying his hands with the cookbook, counting to 10 and back to calm himself.

John frowns, but he rips the paper because what else he should do, right. Paul pretends he doesn't feel like jumping from the skyscraper, eyes squeezed shut, teeth molesting the tender flesh of his lips.

"Oh," it's high-pitched and so out of character for the snarky & tough boy Paul knows, that it forces him to look directly at John.

John, whose face carries every drop of blood available in his body, so it seems, because it can't be described as an ordinary blush. Paul finds it endearing, becomes less conscious of his own state. The grin John throws his way, the one full of teeth and light in his eyes, the one that makes him look so young, that damned smile nestles on Paul's chest, waves of peculiar sensation rolling over him. 

"It's not, ehm, 's not all, y'know," he blurts our, fidgeting in his seat. "H-have one more present for you, so, i-if you don't like it-"

"I love it." 

"Because I wasn't sure whether you prefer acrylic or oil colour and it's-"

"Paul, I love it, it's wonderful, thank you."

Paul nods, desperately raking his brain for something coherent.

"Uh, and I love the book, too, y'know."

There, he did it again, utterly humiliated himself by weird noises instead of intellectually challenging words. A thin layer of sweat covers his hands, something that only throws him off balance more. He is tired, unsure... _and in love, no he is not, yes he is._ The only thing he musters enough courage for, is letting his hands rest on the top of the small table, begging them not to shake like he is 80 years old.

"Do you...ehm, do you mind if-?"

Paul has no idea what is John referring to, he is about to voice it when something caresses his hand. 

WHEN JOHN CARESSES HIS HAND.

It's a bashful movement, just the pinky grazing the skin, a ticklish sensation that feels heavenly. Unfortunately, John doesn't belong to the people who can interpret emotions because he takes the silence as a signal to stop. So, he does, mumbling apologies as he painfully slow withdraws his hand, looking like he would like to be buried alive.

"Nonsense," Paul thinks before reaching forward, yanking the most perfect hand he has ever seen back. It's his turn now to explore the unknown, graze the slightly dry skin _(a bit clammy, too, he is not the only one!!)_ and trace every crevice and line. He doesn't want to stop. In the frenzy of the moment, Paul leans in to press his lips to every single finger, noticing the roughness of the callouses. All hesitation is gone when John's breath hitches _(AHA)_ and the lad scoots closer, wordlessly telling Paul not to back off.

The position is not very convenient for professing one's love through tender gestures both of them realise and reluctantly let go, their hands still touching. 

Eventually, John has to go as he promised Mimi to be back before 10 pm, but he hugs Paul when they are parting, crossing yet another barrier. 

Paul wraps his arms around John, of course he does, smelling cigarettes, oranges and mint. He watches the familiar figure to disappear, waves when it turns around. 

He doesn't mind the pile of neglected soon-to-be-presents objects, or the possibility of his cousin never talking to him again. It all fades next to John.

🦧🦧🦧

It's dark and quiet in John's room, but the resident is wide awake. Wrapped in a cocoon of blankets, a sleeping cat by his side, John replays the events of the day as if dozing off would delete them forever.

Under his pillow rests a guide to Paris, and for the first time since he brought it home John doesn't feel shame when dreaming about kissing Paul near the Seine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heya, heya, ho, merry Christmas to those who celebrate, plesant time to everyone! (excuse the chaotic pace, my brain is less keen on collaborating with me as of late)


	5. Loud confessions are preceded by silent panic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a party full of surprises

"For fuck's sake, stop fumbling with those, or McCartney will have to wring 'em out first to actually enjoy your gift," signs a very tired Stuart who turned it into a personal mission to make sure John'd avoid anything with a teeny drop of alcohol. Too late he realised it eliminated his choice of drinks, too. Oh, to gulp down an unreasonable amount of nameless booze to balance the despair induced by John Lennon nervously smoothening and straightening the printed version of tickets. 

"If he come--"

"--WHEN he comes," he corrects the wreck of his friend automatically, hoping George and Ivan possess enough mental strength to persuade Paul to tag around. 

"Right," John repeats, grinning anxiously as he unfolds the sacred papers for the nth time and intends to repeat the action again when Stuart snatches and carefully shoves them into his pocket. 

"And he will love it, John, absolutely love it," Stu adds, linking their elbows to steer them into the garden. "C'mon, let's chat with Cyn and Shotton, they are probably designing McLennon merch just now." 

🦧🦧🦧

"Don't forget the present!" George yells so Paul hears him even through the quiet stream of gurgling he's been emitting since Ivan and he showed at the doorframe of The Forthlin Road. 

Ivan's contribution consists of offering his fashion advice as Paul prances around, sporting different combinations of clothes. At least they were smart enough to involve Mike to rush his older brother to shave and shower before their arrival.

"How many people are going to be there?" Paul asks, settling for a black T-shirt and casually stuffing the rest of his wardrobe back.

"Not so many," George offers, knowing very well he dances on thin ice. Especially when Paul's movement comes to a brief halt before the lad shrugs it off.

"John's going to be there, that's what matters," Ivan saves the situation, the statement causing Paul to swirl around, red-faced.

"Are you sure he knows, y'know" -- Paul's voice turns into a whisper as if he is ashamed of asking-- "that, well, we are supposed to exchange gifts?" His gaze flickers between Ivan and George, the determination to unveil the truth™ tensing his shoulders just slightly.

"Of course he bloody knows," George retorts with a glance at his watch. "And you better move your arse not to let him wait for an eternity."

🦧🦧🦧

John embraces the glass of water Cyn just brought him with a smile and makes a joke about staying hydrated. No one comments on the panic attack he went through just minutes ago. 

Thankfully, his friends were not only understanding but immediately jumped into action -- Cynthia rushed for water, Stuart fetched their coats, and Pete found an abandoned corner in the large garden while simultaneously babbling about the last movie he saw. 

They are huddling together because the downfall of having a crisp white layer of snow covering everything is the sodden chill. 

John doesn't think he has ever feared anything more than meeting Paul today. Even the very serious talk with the headmaster regarding the possible expulsion didn't blur his vision like trying to rehearse the opening line for their "things-are-getting-serious" talk. Hell, he would probably handle any crucial conversation about the purpose of his life with Mimi better than approaching his best friend, who kissed his hand the last time they saw each other, yes, he remembers that, and telling him he would like to take him to Paris. John almost spirals into yet another episode, his skin getting mockingly sweaty compared to the drought of his mouth...

Instead, there's Ivan, waving at their little group from the comfort of the house and looking like a shepherd dog lurking back its sheep.

🦧🦧🦧

"Sooo, good luck then, don't get wasted before you actually talk," with that George pats Paul's back, pushing him deeper into the house full of people Paul has never encountered before. Though, before departing to the darkness, he hugs Paul with such intensity it could break one or two ribs of a person not accustomed to such treatment. "You have nothing to worry about."

Ivan disappeared the second they stepped in, and nothing surprises Paul anymore.

_beep beep toot toot_

He scans the rooms with pursed lips, his hands clutching a paper cup with cola like it's a lifebelt.

It's not parties that cause his stomach to tighten, rather the stress it always amasses. It reminds him of all those mandatory events at school or within one's family, the ones where you have to sit, smile and preferably pretend you don't think what you do think. No, thanks, Paul likes to hang out with his friends, enjoys getting high with George or watching pretentious avant-garde movies with John and Cynthia, people who don't require him to put on a mask of joy. But he hasn't ever been able to relax without the urge to charm everybody just to feel included, and today's no exception. Being locked in room with nobody but Stuart seems like a fairly tale now.

  
_beep beep toot toot_

  
Bullshit. There are tons of things Paul should (and is) worrying over.

The music, for instance, shitty and catchy, is poking his temples to the point his head starts to throb in the rhythm of that horrendous song.

Not to mention he hasn't seen John yet.

Maybe he's not even here. Shutup. George said John would be there. Right? It's only a matter of time. 

Paul smiles at a guy bumping into him easily launching into a small chit chat while carrying a panicky conversation in his head. 

Carefully peeking into the bathroom not to interrupt some strangers making out, the events from 2 weeks prior start to rewind in front of his eyes.

John smiling and gifting him the book. How adorable he looked when their hands touched. Their hug. A part of Paul, the less bold and more dreamy one, wishes they would be still circling each other, not expecting a lot but cherishing every accidental improvement. 

How do other people even manage to talk about their feelings without clammy palms and symptoms of stroke? 

He checks the contents of his pocket to reassure himself nothing has vanished and continues the tour de Shotton's house, trying to inhale for 4 and exhale for 5 as per George's advice.

🦧🦧🦧

"Hamburg?" Ivan wheezes, his mouth forming a comical O. "You fucking matched with a chick from Hamburg and actually plan to travel there?"

"Maybe it wasn't such a good idea to share this information with Ivan of all the people," Stuart ponders, sensing the blush creeping up his cheeks. 

"Well, she, Astrid I mean, she's, eh, really interesting. And funny. Does photography and all that," he explains, hoping Ivan hasn't spent all his clever words of support on John's case. 

"Oh my goodness," the wise man shouts, alerting some of the passing people. So much about a private discussion. "It's like some disease, first John and Paul, now you and...and--"

"Astrid."

"--yes, Astrid. Makes you wonder who's next, like, me or George or Cyn?"

"Ey, why not me?" Pete chimes in.

"Because yer like 10 plagues of Egypt on two legs," Ivan retorts, earning himself a proper shove.

"I hope it's Georgie, can't imagine how much worse you would get," Stuart remarks, stifling a giggle when Ivan has the audacity to look appalled.

🦧🦧🦧

A tap on the shoulder startles Paul, and he turns around to face the intruder or to greet a friend he hasn't noticed, but it's neither, and he regrets not coming up with enough conversation starters because in front of him, in his auburn glory, stands John.

"Hi," Paul squeezes out, clearing his throat to get rid of the funny wobble it produces.

"Hi," John echoes, too quietly for the infamous rascal. "You think we could go somewhere private?"

The tone is soft and nervous even to Paul who himself fights with fabric of his own emotional turmoil hanging over his eyes. But it provides hope -- John's found him which means he had to search for him. And Paul knows him long enough to know that Lennon wouldn't even turn up if their friendship? (relationship? OH GOD) didn't mean anything.

So, he follows him, avoiding the scattered groups of people in different states of drunkenness until they are in Pete Shotton's room, the party a string of muffled vibrations. They lock the door, just to maintain their bubble, both aware of how one small inconvenience could cause them to shut up forever.

"Ehm," John speaks up, visibly cringing at the poor choice of words.

"Well," Paul contributes to the fruitful verbal exchange. To resist doing anything stupid he sits on the bed, observing John from a safe distance.

"Right, ehm, I think I should start, so," John trails off, an expression of concentration splayed on his face as he fishes up a list of paper and timidly offers it to Paul who scrutinises the document with the utmost care, his eyes growing wider and wider with every word.

🦧🦧🦧

George admires the endless sky stretching above him, trying to remember the name of at least one star and failing miserably. The atmosphere calls for a smoke, and he obliges, relishing the burning feeling in his lungs. 

He escaped the blaring chaos of too many people once he caught a glimpse of two familiar figures sneaking upstairs. A wave of nostalgia, sweet in its very essence but not lacking a sour aftertaste, washed over his heart, urging him to venture outside.

"This one's for Paul and John," he excuses the second cigarette before lighting it up. He feels like a proud parent, however strange it sounds. Just months ago Paul and John settled for discreet glances, and now they are attempting to confess their feelings despite still doubting whether it's mutual. "Time flies so fucking fast," George mutters surrounded by unbothered nature.

"It sure does."

Now, George wouldn't describe himself as someone to crap their pants at the sound of a branch cracking, but he struggles to keep his cool when he sees the stranger who ruined his "I'm-so-full-of-emotions" moment. 

Albeit shorter than him, the guy occupies the space with a casual confidence George sometimes dreams of. He looks a bit scary, too, like someone who knows tricks and secrets of the night streets. George's face reddens when he realises he's thinking like they are living in the 50s. 

It doesn't go unnoticed, judging by the cackle escaping the other man's lips. Oddly enough, it's a reassuring sound, fitting more for an old friend than someone's who he sees for the first time ever.

"Got a light?"

🦧🦧🦧

John tries to be patient. He decides to count the posters glued to the wall above the small bed. THE BED PAUL'S READING HIS PRESENT. Not having a clue of the standard time needed for understanding barely 2 paragraphs, he decides to help him with an explanation.

"See, that's, ehm, I know 's bit messy and...stuff. I got nervo-well, me hands are fidgety." Paul slowly looks up, blinking one, two, three times like someone has cast a spell on him. Though, he doesn't say anything -- positive or negative -- and John takes it as a cue to try harder. And that he does. Sitting next to the younger lad, gently seizing hold of the paper and pointing to different items. "Right, so, here, here, this is my credit for this airline...airline. And here! Here are the flights to Paris, with dates and everything."

Having described everything and still not receiving an answer, John's leg starts to bounce to release the tension. 

"I-I don't think I follow?"

Paul turns to face him, his eyes basically bulging out now while a pondering wrinkle ruffles the smooth surface of his forehead. There goes John's plan to use clever words to tiptoe around the bland truth. He's going to flee the country if the backfires.

"It's an invitation. To Paris. From me to you. That's-that's my present. I didn't choose the dates yet because I don't know your schedule. Or whether you would even like to join me. We can forget it all, too, if you prefer that, 's all fine."

"You are insane," Paul mutters. "Paris. With me. Just like that. And-and all I got you is THIS!" He pockets his trousers till another paper appears, and he hands it to his friend. Unlike John, he doesn't give him a minute to skim over the text, launching into a detailed commentary right away.

"I KNEW I should give you my present first. There was this article in the newspapers, y'know, about an old couple who shelter old dogs and stray cats, and people can visit them or adopt them and then visit them. So, like Mimi doesn't want another cat and I thought about you. It's a farm in the countryside, I mean, I know you hate hiking, but what if it was hiking to see cats, right? Ehem, so, yeah...that-that's it. Obviously, it can't compete with Paris. But..God, okay, it's an adoption certificate. Well, a copy of the original, because I didn't want to lose it. You are a dad of 5 cats. 3 old, grumpy ladies and 2 nameless kittens." 

They sit there, side by side, their feet tapping nervously as neither dares to speak first.

"You would come with me?" John asks with a small voice after a while. "To visit the cats, I mean."

"Yes."

He nods, that's a good start, wills his leg to calm down and scoots closer.

"And to Paris?"

John's heart is climbing up to his throat like a restless ant. His breath stalls, something he realises only when Paul gingerly takes his hand, and a long exhale is pushed out of his chest at once.

"Yes, of course."

Hundreds of emotions rush through the mind of the articulate John Lennon. From disbelief to ecstasy and horror of misunderstanding something, finally, it settles on panic. "What now, what now, what now," his brain repeats helplessly. He summons enough energy to link their fingers in case Paul would think of vanishing. 

Nothing indicates that, though, because the younger man leans forward, dangerously so, and bestows a kiss right on John's lips. 

JUST.LIKE.THAT.

He is so, so grateful they locked the door, because what follows is one of the most intimate moments of John's life, and he wouldn't like to have it crushed by some dodo bursting in. 

They are kissing. Paul's hands are securely placed on his shoulders, and John grants himself permission to ruffle the meticulously combed tuft of silky hair. The act stands far from anything raunchy, but apparently that's enough to send a shiver down John's spine. It's a series of little pecks resembling birds sipping drops of water. 

When they pull back, mirror images of dishevelled hair and flushed faces, John knows how happiness feels like. 

"Fancy a sleep-over at mine?"

🦧🦧🦧

George can't believe his luck when a message from Paul announces he and John will spend the night at Mendips. 

"Probably squeezed in one bed, too," Stuart reacts when he too opens an identical notification. He rolls his eyes fondly, nudging George to help him.

Yes, it's good neither Paul nor John linger around. Not that carrying absolutely sloshed Ivan to his own house where they agreed to sleep off the effects of alcohol and nicotine produces extra endorphins, quite the contrary, because the guy is heavy like an obese elephant. But their absence allows a dreamy smile to shine without idiotic remarks. 

Ritchie. Such a lovely name. He insisted on a nickname Ringo, but George scrunched his nose, not negotiable. And those blue eyes! They spoke about nothing and everything, and even in the pitiful light situation Ritchie's eyes sparkled and caused George to abandon his usual introvert's shell. 

"Suuuup, ladies, eeeeh, "Mgunna, gunna SING!" Ivan graces the empty street with his performance before Stuart's hand landing over his mouth shushes him. Their gazes meet too abruptly for George to tuck away the blissful grin. Well, at least he can rely on Stu's sense for diplomacy. 

"ALE-ALE-ALEJANDRO, howhowitgoes?? do youuu, do ya luv mhe, or...do-DO YOU WANT FAMEeeeeEe--"

Though, he wouldn't mind 2 additional pairs of hands to force Ivan to shut up.

"You exchanged numbers?" Stuart speaks up when they finally deposit Ivan into his bed and go for a late-night snack to Vaughan's kitchen.

Busy preparing the perfect bowl of cereal, George only pats his jacket where his phone rests.

"Care to show me that mysterious Fräulein of yours?" 

Stuart mimics the affectionate smile George's worn for the entire duration of their walk, turning his phone screen to show him a picture.

"This is Astrid in Berlin..."

🦧🦧🦧

"Are you going to sleep there?" John questions from behind the door of the bathroom.

Paul mumbles something, inspecting his reflection. He's snuggled in John's pyjamas, freshly showered and just finished brushing his teeth. Nothing new for their friendship. 

Except for it's going to be the first time they won't top and tail. Except for they kissed tonight. And, very likely, will kiss some more. EXCEPT FOR JOHN INVITED HIM TO PARIS. 

He rearranges his hair once more before joining John in his room. The steamy shower tinted the auburn-haired lad's cheeks pink, and Paul observes him from the doorframe, half adoringly, half scared shitless. 

"Looks alright?" John faces him after the state of the fluff of various pillows is to his satisfaction.

"Very," Paul nods, just so-so hiding a pleasing smile. He has rarely seen John fussing like that, and it's already become his favourite thing, breathing on the back of photos of old English sheepdogs.

Getting into the bed, TOGETHER, isn't as problematic as looking for a comfortable position. John shies away whenever Paul decides to get closer and vice versa. It's remarkable how casually they approached sticking their feet into other's face compared to **this.**

"Hang on," he grunts, shuffling up, to the right, then guiding John to shimmy to the left, _et voilà_ , much better. He is laying on his back, John's head resting on his chest, the other man's arms flopped around his waist. If Paul refrains from loud breathing, he can feel John's heartbeat! And even if he pants like a dog, John's smell -- a mix of his shower gel, ciggies and something he can't put his finger on -- tickles Paul's nose.

Pure happiness concentrated in the closeness of two bodies. Bloody amazing.

"'Aven't thanked you for the cats," John utters to Paul's cotton-covered sternum. 

"I haven't said a proper thanks, too," Paul muses, a strand after strand of almost ginger hair gliding between his fingers. "I still think yer mad for spending so much money on me, especial-." 

A pair of thin, slightly chapped lips covers his own, effectively silencing the complaint about John's finances management. This time they gave up to the urge to explore, each tuned to every little gasp and sound the other emits. 

Once delightfully knackered, they snuggle back, giggling as if they know a secret nobody else is aware of. And, to some extent, they are.

"Paul?

"Do you think Celery and Cabbage are decent cat names?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just a quick question regarding the layout of this fic: should I wrap it with this chapter + the epilogue OR would anybody be interested in one more chapter about Paris squeezed in before the epilogue?


End file.
